Elliot's Reading - October 2022
You can tell fro Graham Greene’s first novel, The Man Within (1929), that he was a writer on the path to a great career, although what type of career may not have been immediately evident. The novel, in essence, is the tale over a few days of a man (Andrews) who had been involved in smuggling (from France to England) of whiskey (his father’s profession, and one to which he was not well suited) who turns on this crew - a highly dangerous thing to do esp in that the entire justice system of the coastal town is dependent in one way or another on the illegal trade. The novel opens with Andrews running in fright from the vengeful crew when he gains entry from a sympathetic woman, Elizabeth, who shelters him - and with whom he falls in love. A crime story? A love story? Something more? Less? First of all readers will note the many philosophical and psychological passages, and will also note that there’s relatively little space given to the more exciting scenes - the chase through fog, the flight from the town after the men are acquitted in trial, guarding the house and Elizabeth as the vengeful troop approaches in the dark night - while a lot of space is that of Andrews and his meditation about his love, his cowardice, his competence. So the novel in some sense is neither fish nor foul, way to meandering in its structure to appeal as a crime novel, but as a work of psychological insight it’s hampered by the improbability of most of the action (e.g., how can we in any way believe in his love for Eliz. and hers for him over a period of 2 or 3 days?). The novel could have been tightened and trimmed to half its length at no great loss - but we can see, throughout, the intelligence and wide range of knowledge of the narrator, and hence (though less probably) of Andrews. In the brief preface to the Penguin paperback edition Greene writes disparagingly of this early novel; for Green fans, it’s worth reading, for others, not so much.
I have no complaint against novelists who set their work in the present and go all out to be timely and relevant - so long as what they write provides us with some fresh information, some drama, some feeling, some style. I do have a problem w/ the usually reliable Elizabeth Strout’s latest in her Lucy saga, Lucy by the Sea (2022), which begins at the outset of the pandemic and, through the first half of this novel, which is as far along as I traveled, follow Lucy as, prompted by her ex-husband, William, gets ushered to a somewhat spacious seaside rental on the coast of Maine. One problem: everything she writes here about the dawning awareness of the lethality of Covid, the initial denial, the warnings and promptings by her ex, the sense of isolation, the fear of the unknown - all so familiar to all readers, to lacking in surprise and wonder, and therefor of little interest, at least to me. This novel should be put into time capsule so that when our grandchildren open the cache readers will have a sense of what life was like back when in the ‘20s. Among other problems: Nothing really happens to Lucy “on stage.” All the the drama takes place among her offspring, about whom she frets and with good reason: divorce, illness, back choices, etc. A novel needs something to happen to and by and for the protagonist (in this case, the narrator): Something dramatic in Lucy’s life, that is. For example, she develops a nodding acquaintance w/ one of the locals, an elderly man whom she suspects may have put a “Yankees go home” placard on her car. Did he do so? I can tell you that nothing on this score develops in the first 125 of so pp., and M tells me that toward he end the man briefly apologizes. That’s it? Come on. And Lucy’s relationship w/ her ex - well nothing happens in the first half, for sure, and whatever connection is made later - there is one, I am told - is of little interest or importance at that point (William is no prize). I could go on. But I have to suppose that Strout is of sufficient stature - well deserved - that no work of hers will be turned down, ever, and readers may often feel comfortable w/ her style - relaxed and informal, if sometimes forced (many phrases such as “what I’m trying to say is…” so, hey, you’re a writer, just say it!). There have been several other “plague novels”:
Blindness, the Decameron - and they generally succeed when the plague itself is almost like a character, a horror, effecting all, or when the plague stands for some other condition, e.g., Camus’ Plague and its sociopolitical repercussions. Strout’s have neither, but what can I say? Reviews have been glowing, though I can’t help feeling that Strout can do better. She has done better.
I may be wrong, probably am, won’t be the first time, but it seems to me that most of the Thomas McGuane stories I’ve read in the New Yorker have been about the lives of Montana immigrants or about Montanans who have made their small fortunes in the service of the arriving waves of settlers - the real-estate agents, attorneys, et al. who had once been peripheral to the life of the far west and have become central players. TM’s story, Kae Half, Leave Half, in the current New Yorker seems a departure for him - a story about two guys who’d been friends since boyhood and who over time follow their love of the rugged outdoors and become ranch hands - a totally non glamours and non prosperous type of work but deeply satisfying to these two adventuresome sorts, until. … It’s a really good about Westerners whose lives have been romanticized and glamorized when in fact it’s difficult and dangerous and hasn’t changed greatly since the days of the cattle drives.
Graham Greene’s novel A Burnt-Out Case (1961), which could apply to any of several characters in the novel, came right after a string of his most famous novels, including The Power and the Glory, The Heart of the Matter, The End of the Affair, and The Quiet American, and it’s overshadowed by these, perhaps rightfully, though it’s still a novel worth reading - typical Greene central figure, Querry (note the homonym), a lost soul, highly intelligent, a bit acerbic, self-destructive - in this case a renowned architect (of churches primarily), famous on the order of, say, Frank Lloyd Wright, who gives up his profession/vocation and journeys aimlessly up an unnamed river in central Africa - shades of Conrad here, obviously - and we find him at the terminus of the river ferry days or even weeks upstream at what we (and he) soon learn is a leper colony staffed by a medically skilled team of (mostly) Catholic priests. Q decides to stay, and he helps, to some degree, with patient care and with sketching out plans for a new hospital on site. Eventually, a world-weary journalist discovers Querry in exile and writes a profile, which brings Q unwanted attention. Much of the novel involves debate and discussion about faith and belief; Q of course is resistant and insists he is note devout, though we have our doubts - and he resists all efforts to gothic to announce his faith. He also gets entangled with the wife of a palm-oil magnate who provides the colony with its fuel - and finds himself accused, unjustly, of having sex with extremely naive and immature young woman - leading to a final crisis and to complete misunderstanding of his life. The novel is dark and gloomy, though w/ touches of sarcastic humor - typical of GG - and it’s frightening in its account of the dreadful disease and the risks and discomfort of those who run the colony: will remind some of Naipaul’s African novels (e.g. Bend in the River) and of much more recent work from Theroux on theme of fateful visit to leper colony.
Not one but two sizable excerpts from forthcoming books in yesterday’s NYT; first, in the Arts and Leisure section, 4 full pages of Cormac McCarthy’s The Passenger. CMcC has become a member of the top tier of living American writers, lauded by lovers of literary fiction, lovers of Westerns, and lovers of adventure yarns - and a man w/ a distinct enigmatic style, obviously deeply influenced by Hemingway, the tough dialect and exterior, the glancing conversation in which characters address one another only obliquely. The except in the Times, particularly the first half, was a taut, exciting adventure among divers tasked with pulling up the remains from a multi-fatal plane crash. I would read more of this! But the accompanying story about CMcC dissuaded me from even trying: 800 pp? Much of which is about particle physics? Props to the author for knowing so damn much and exploring this esoterica in what will probably be his last work of fiction (he’s 89!) but I don’t think I could make my way in any such narrative short of giving it my life. Then, in the NYTBR, there was an excerpt from Bob Dylan’s The Philosophy of Modern Poetry, a title he must have chosen as the most boring and conventional work of the year; it virtually sends the message “don’t read this boo”; it sounds like a course-catalog entry for a course you wouldn’t take. Except that it’s Dylan - so - I’ll probably someday give it a look - it’s a series of short appreciations by Dylan of presumably the songs most important to him (none by him, I believe); unfortunately, the two pieces excerpted here did nothing for me and worry that these may be a set of castoffs from his erstwhile radio show. I’d love to know his real thoughts on these songs, but the 2 excerpted looked strange - quick takes rather than thoughtful essays and analysis. I’ll someday leaf through the book and see if his riffs on songs I know will ring more truly.
To say that I’m not the target readership for Sarah Thahkam Mathews’s NBA fiction finalist, All This Could Be Different, would be a bit of an understatement - yet I do enjoy reading novels and stories that are far from my life and experiences - as any quick glance over recent posts on this blog will evince - but said characters and communities must have some reason for being to get my interest and commitment to the work. STM’s (unnamed?) narrator (and I suspect there will be other narrators - I’ve stopped about 25% into the novel) is of Indian descent, Queer, 20-something, has a job that she doesn’t like though it pays well, in the not-often-written-about city of Milwaukee, whose small size, esp in the Qureer community, allows for many meetups that in NYC, for ex., would be highly improbable. This is to say that her novel rings many bells - but what it doesn’t have, at least for me, is a driving force: Something problem or crisis that the narrator or central character experiences, something he or she or they much overcome, a crisis, a revelation - + a fully realized back story can be good, too - but by p. 80 or so we have experienced none of these, other than a slowly blooming relationship developing between narrator and Black Queer friend and much drinking, pick-ups, mild intoxicants, and self-described “sluttish” behavior that would be ridiculed if acted out among White males - in short, lives seemingly going nowhere, opportunities wasted, crises averted. Good fortune to STM but I concede that this work was not meant for me.
Dead-End Memories, the collection of 5 short stories from the prolific Japanese author Banana (yes, that’s her published name; is it a pen name?) Yoshimoto (2003, but first English tr. 2022, Asa Yoneda), has some of the strange, sometimes supernatural style sometimes reminiscent of her contemporary Murakami, but with more of a focus on young women and often tragic family life. There’s some pretty gruesome material in this book: a poisoning, a double-suicide, a rape, child neglect - but the mood is not as dark as it may seem from these instances. The characters narrating these stories triumph over their adversity, though not unscathed. The best story to me in this collection is the final story, the title story in fact, in that it’s about a woman suffering from betrayal by her fiancé - a brutal shock to her, but one that she recovers, at least so it seems, and gets on with her life. We feel deeply sorry for her - and for all of the protagonists, narrators, and victims in this collection. BY is difficult to categorize, and her elliptical style may be difficult for American fans of the short story; they’re more quiet and acquiescent in their tone - for ex., the woman who’s a victim of a random act of internal food poisoning is more upset by her outburst of anger the presence of a professor who pesters her with a string of questions about her ordeal than she is at the co-worker who poisoned the cafeteria food. Does that say something about the Japanese temperament, or is it a quirk of BY’s style? In any event, the stories are compact and well-crafted, the translation seems really good (AY even uses “nauseated” correctly!), and it’s a good introduction to BY’s works, albeit from nearly two decades ago
